


Just A J, Really

by funis



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 20:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funis/pseuds/funis
Summary: Crowley reveals what the J stands for.





	Just A J, Really

**Author's Note:**

> here's my headcanon, eat it, it's good.

"It stands for Jesus," Crowley blurts out nonsensically that night, after the first time, and the second time, and the subsequent cheese platter, when they're back in Aziraphale's bed, too full of cheese to do anything more than lie next to one another.

Aziraphale rolls to look at him. "What does, dear?"

"The J. Anthony J Crowley. It's Jesus."

"Oh, goodness, Crowley." Aziraphale smooths down the sheet uncomfortably. "There's no need to taunt me with blasphemy now."

"Picked it up in the late thirties, when I woke up from my nap," Crowley grins. "Now that was an anastasis."

Aziraphale smacks his thigh, eliciting a pleasant rumbling laugh from Crowley that makes Aziraphale wonder why he was cross in the first place.

Crowley's eyes are bright as they look over the curve of Aziraphale's stomach, his neck, his mouth and the way it creases skin like silk with the force of his smile. "Nah, m'only joking." He releases a breath and turns his gaze to the ceiling. Two thousand years of Christmases, Easters, Lents, all mix in his chest and blow it up like a balloon. "Was never meant to be blasphemy."

Aziraphale seems amused. "So you just happened to like the name?"

"I liked the man," Crowley responds, the honesty sour like a lemon drop in his throat. "I think... I think he was my first friend."

Aziraphale is quiet for a moment, reaching over to touch Crowley's hair, stroke a knuckle over his brow as if consoling himself that Crowley doesn't resent him for taking longer to accept his friendship. Crowley hadn't exactly called Jesus his _best_ friend, that privilege was all Aziraphale's. "What was he like?" he asks after a while.

"Oh, uh. He was nice enough. I only knew him for forty days, mind you. And I was trying to corrupt him the whole time."

"Like with Warlock?"

"Suppose, yeah."

"Well, no wonder it didn't work, then, if the evilest thing you did was sing vaguely ominous lullabies." Aziraphale flicks the side of his face with a soft smile. "That sounds quite pleasant, actually."

"Oh, shut up, angel." Crowley huffs. "But I suppose you're not far off. Not only did I fail, I somehow managed to let him make friends with me. And when it was all over, he said, _Crawly, I appreciate the effort, but evidently it hasn't worked. Now, if you're amenable, I'm going to forgive y-_" The words won't come out of Crowley's mouth properly, getting stuck in the claggy post-cheese feeling in the back of his throat. He remembers a similar feeling the first time, the hot tears in her snake eyes. Remembers him touching her cheek and telling her that there would be space for everyone in the world he would create; all would be forgiven. Remembers Jesus dying for her, for everyone, for the world with infinite space. "I'm paraphrasing, of course."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale breathes next to him.

He remembers watching it happen. Remembers _be kind to each other_, and _oh, yeah, that'll do it_. Remembers the cross going up. The promise of absolution. Getting nothing and losing everything. 

Crowley clears his throat. "Yeah. Very bright young man. Didn't deserve what he got."

"I can't imagine," Aziraphale says, blue eyes like rock pools, and although Jesus couldn't save everyone in the end, he had given Crowley such a gift. "Sometimes I think the Almighty really does take things to unnecessary extremes."

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Now look who's blaspheming." He thinks about that exchange, how it permitted him to do good again, the Arrangement that sprang from that permission, the love that grew from that ground.

Aziraphale hums, "I suppose you must be a bad influence after all."

Aziraphale takes Crowley's hand on the sheets between them, and the gesture feels like a new world with just enough space for two.

**Author's Note:**

> any thoughts? lemme know! thanks for reading!


End file.
